


A Handholding Song

by skoosiepants



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-10
Updated: 2009-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m gonna write a song about you,” Joe says. “It’ll be a handholding song, I hope you don’t mind if I make you a girl.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Handholding Song

**Author's Note:**

> HE HOBO JOE AU! It’s finished! And it's, like, an uber schmoopy meet-cute, but whatever. So many thanks to insunshine for beta’ing this – I’ve recently realized that I phrase things in epically weird ways, and some of it is just my style, but most of it is just stupid, and she totally calls me on it every time. And! TNBC was real, as was Hang Time, and those were my Saturday mornings for years.

“So we’re hiding,” Brendon says, sliding down to sit on the floor next to Joe.

Joe likes Brendon. Brendon’s an awesome kid, and he always gives Joe extra brownies or muffins or whatever with his coffee, even though Joe doesn’t technically work in the building. Although, whatever, Argyle Dude always sits by him on his lunch hour and gives him a couple bucks and half his sandwich, so, like, that _totally_ counts.

Of course, not everyone appreciates Joe and the way Joe can rock an acoustic version of No Diggity or In Da Club, particularly not Smoking Hot Security Guard Bob, who’s back a full five minutes early from his morning break. Which is why Joe is paying Brendon’s coffee kiosk an especially up-close and personal visit on this fine morn. He thinks there’s some biscotti digging into his back.

Joe clutches his guitar to his chest. “Why would you ever say that?” Joe says. He’s resisting the urge to peek over the top of the counter. It’s not like he’s _afraid_ of Bob, but Bob thinks he’s a hobo. 201 West Independence apparently has a strict no hobos in the lobby policy. It sucks, since Joe can only sneak in for some of Brendon’s spectacular coffee on Bob’s breaks or when Ray is working, since Ray’s a pushover. He’s also, like, The Fixer Of All Things, though, and he keeps giving Joe clothes and ramen noodles and free clinic pamphlets – Joe’s not sure which behavior is more insulting, Bob or Ray’s, but either way Joe isn’t a _bum_.

He’s got an apartment. He shares it with three other dudes, yeah, and he sleeps on a mattress on the floor of Butcher’s room, but he pays rent. _Some_ rent. He gives Andy whatever he has each month; he’s totally contributing to society and shit. He’s bringing peace and harmony to the masses through busking - and by selling the high-grade weed he and Frank are growing in the bathroom. That’s also probably something he shouldn’t mention to Bob. Ever.

And Joe showers daily, thanks very much. Or, like, every other day. He tends to forget to brush his hair, though; it’s kind of out of control, but Joe likes how it’s enormous and flattering to his nose.

There’s a knock on the counter above him and Joe jumps a little, startled, then freezes while Brendon scrambles to his feet and says, “Hi, Bob!” and leans onto his elbows and kicks Joe on the hip with a pointy, meaningful shoe.

After a moment of silence – where Joe imagines Bob doing his I-am-not-impressed frown and eyebrow arch combination – Bob says, “Where’s Joe?”

Brendon shifts and says, “No clue, dude. I definitely have not seen him inside here. In this lobby. At all. Today.”

Joe barely resists the urge to palm his face.

Bob grunts. His grunt is full of weary skepticism. “Okay, right.”

Seriously, Joe’s _not_ scared of Bob, and he totally doesn’t care if Bob throws him out of the lobby again, but Joe hasn’t gotten his second coffee of the day yet, and his second coffee of the day usually comes with one of Brendon’s homemade brownies, with the pecans and fudge.

Plus, it’s getting cold out. Fucking autumn. He tucks his feet in closer and shuffles sideways a little.

Brendon bounces on his heels. “Coffee?”

“No,” Bob says, “thanks.”

Joe hopes Bob doesn’t have anything against coffee – like he’s one of those nut-jobs who doesn’t need the sweet, sweet elixir to become something resembling a human being in the morning.

That would kind of fuck with Joe’s plan to marry Bob and have all his babies.

*

Spencer huffs his hair out of his face and presses the send calls button on his phone just as Ryan pushes through the revolving doors.

“You’re early,” Spencer says, but he’s already stuffing his cell into his messenger bag and getting to his feet, tugging the strap over his head and across his body. He’s not opposed to taking an early lunch, even if it makes for a long afternoon. Siska’s out sick, so there’s no one to send increasingly ridiculous IMs to, and Siska hasn’t figured out how to use his BlackBerry yet.

“I’ve got an idea,” Ryan says, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

Spencer arches an eyebrow.

“Just wait, it’s a great idea,” Ryan says, and he’s not smiling, but his eyes are kind of lit up, and Spencer suppresses a groan. “We ask Brendon to lunch.”

Spencer’s eyebrow goes higher, other one climbing up to join it. “Is this Jon’s idea?”

Ryan shrugs one shoulder.

Jon has this completely insane theory that Brendon and Spencer are in love. Which they aren’t. Brendon’s that friendly with everyone. He’s like a golden retriever, only slightly less hairy. Spencer and Brendon talk about the weather and French vanilla coffee and Hobo Joe, and that’s basically the extent of their six-month-long acquaintance.

Jon, Spencer knows, is a romantic. A fucked-up sap, obviously, given the way he keeps buying Ryan sweater-vests, but a romantic.

Spencer sighs and glances over at Brendon’s cart across the lobby. Brendon seems to be having a conversation with his feet. This actually isn’t so surprising. “Fine,” he says.

“Great,” Ryan says. “You do it.”

Spencer doesn’t even bother arguing, and it’s not like it’ll kill him to go over and ask Brendon to lunch, but it is a little annoying. Annoying that Jon’s convinced one day they’ll, like, catch each other’s eyes and time’ll stop and Spencer’s heart’ll grow two fucking sizes or something.

Spencer has a _girlfriend_. Spencer has a very hot girlfriend who everyone likes, because she’s a sweetheart, and Spencer’s in love with _her_ , not some spazzy coffee guy who has some truly stupid tattoos on his arm and a penchant for brightly-colored friendship bracelets. Well, okay, maybe he’s not _in love_ with Haley, and they’ve only been dating two months; Spencer isn’t going to jump headfirst into anything, but he at least likes her a whole lot.

Brendon looks up before Spencer even reaches the counter, huge grin blooming across his face and something catches in Spencer’s throat. He silently curses Jon Walker to the seventh circle of Hell.

“Spencer, hey!” Brendon says. He spreads his hands. “What can I get for you?”

Spencer shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m good,” he says. “Ryan and I are heading out to lunch, wanna come?”

Brendon’s eyes get as big as his grin. “Dude, that’d be awesome, just let me lock up.” He glances down and says, “Joe, we can totally smuggle you out, Bob won’t have any idea you were ever here.”

Spencer leans over the counter. Hobo Joe has his head tilted back and a coffee cup lifted in mock solute.

“If I wait for the perfect moment, wee Brendon,” Joe says, “meaning when I’m finished my fine and delicious coffee, Bob can manhandle me all he wants.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Spencer says.

Hobo Joe nods. “It’s better you don’t.”

*

Ben looks wholly unimpressed with Gerard’s latest effort. Gerard groans and tosses his charcoal aside and shifts back onto the grass, propped up by his elbows.

“I don’t even know why I listen to you,” Gerard says to Ben, which is a lie. Ben is always right about everything. It’s kind of annoying.

Ben just cocks his head and hops up onto Gerard’s chest, tiny talons pinpricking his skin underneath his shirt.

“If you shit on me we’re having roast bird for dinner.”

Ben still looks bored, like Gerard could maybe turn into a giant cat and he wouldn’t even bat a beady black eye. The thing about budgies, Gerard thinks, is that they’re probably all tiny demons in disguise. Which is cool, so he honestly doesn’t mind sharing his living space with Ben – and Ben’s stuffed penguin, Julia, because Ben’s as co-dependent as Gerard, and Gerard has Ben, Julia _and_ Mikey. And also Baguette Guy, who helps him feed the ducks on Fridays. Gerard’s a big fan of routine.

Whatever. The point is that Ben doesn’t like Gerard’s sketch, and Gerard doesn’t blame him. It’s lame, and there’s not enough blood, or, like, any blood at all. He fucking hates taking commissions.

“I’m a big fat lame-o,” Gerard says and flops totally onto his back, covering his eyes with an arm. His best friend is a _parakeet_. Okay, well, his best friend is actually Mikey, but he’s not so sure that’s any better, given that they’re related.

Gerard’s existence is enormously pathetic.

“Okay,” Gerard says. “Okay, so we scrap this and tell Saporta to go fuck himself.”

“Dude, who’re you talking to?”

Gerard freezes, cheeks heating at getting caught talking to a bird, and then—then he recognizes the voice. “Baguette Guy!” He moves his arm and grins up at him.

Baguette Guy grins back. “Are you talking to Ben again?”

Gerard’s grin turns sheepish. “Maybe.” It’s kind of weird how Baguette Guy knows his budgie’s name and how Gerard knows Baguette Guy calls his favorite mallard, the one with the gimpy waddle, Reginald, but they’ve never actually, like, introduced themselves. “Where’s your bread?” Gerard asks, struggling up and displacing Ben, who chirps in irritation and flutters up onto his shoulder.

“Did Ben just say ‘asshole’? Didn’t fucking know those things could talk, that’s awesome.”

Gerard shrugs. He’s taught Ben _hello_ and _bye-bye_ and Mikey’s taught him _asshole_ and _douchebag_. “He can say, like, a couple words,” he says.

Baguette Guy doesn’t have any bread, though, and it’s vaguely upsetting. Gerard starts getting a little anxious - it’s stupid, but Fridays mean bread and ducks and pretty soon all the ducks’ll be gone for the winter and the fucking geese’ll flock past and, like, those fuckers are vicious and _scary_ \- but then Baguette Guy spreads his hands and says, “Not Friday, man, sorry.”

“Oh, um.” Something inside Gerard relaxes – seriously, he’s such a freak – and he shakes off his sudden panic as best he can. “S’okay.” He’s sure the dude already thinks he’s crazy, but there’s no reason to, like, draw attention to the elephant on the grass. Or whatever. Gerard never fully got what the fuck the elephant was supposed to be.

Baguette Guy doesn’t seem put off, though; he shifts on the balls of his feet and asks, “Smoke?”

“Fuck yes.” Gerard finished his last cigarette half an hour ago. If Baguette Guy had offered him coffee, too, Gerard would’ve fucking proposed.

He lights two cigarettes and hands one off to Gerard, kicking at Gerard’s sketchpad. “Tame, man,” he says.

“I know.” Fucking Gabe Saporta. Gerard doesn’t know how he lets him talk him into shit like this.

Baguette Guy squints down at the page and scratches his neck. “Maybe if you, like, make her old and shit in the background. Creepy future-look, you know?”

Gerard bites his lip. “It’s a shih tzu. Do they even look any different when they’re old?”

“Zombie shih tzu?”

“I don’t know if I could do that to a puppy.” Gerard likes puppies. In theory. Though he’s theoretically in favor of zombies, too.

Baguette Guy’s watching him expectantly.

“I guess I could try it,” Gerard finally says, slowly, nodding his head a little.

Baguette Guy beams. Like, his whole face lights up and his dark hair’s sort of hanging over his eyes, mashed down by a knit cap, and it’s right about then that Gerard realizes he puts maybe entirely too much stock in the opinion of his budgie and a hot stranger.

Time to remedy some of that. He holds out a hand and says, “I’m Gerard.”

*

Frank bangs through the front door and yells, “I’m home, bitches!”

Butcher doesn’t even glance up from his—Frank doesn’t even know; it looks like he’s carving some ricola-horn shit out of huge fucking chunk of wood. Frank doesn’t question it, though, ‘cause Butcher promised to make him a new guitar the next time Morris lets him loose in the shop.

“So Gerard,” Frank says, hopping over the back of the couch and sprawling all over the smelly but comfy cushions that usually serve as his bed - when Bill isn’t passed out on it or when Joe’s up too late for Frank to successfully stealth-snuggle onto his air mattress with him. Joe’s a cuddler, but only when he’s dead asleep.

“What?”

“The guy who sketches at the park with the bird,” Frank says. “His name’s _Gerard_.”

Butcher finally looks at him. “Gerard Way?”

“Um, what the fuck?” Frank sniffs a plastic cup, decides it’s probably just water, goes to take a sip, then thinks twice about it, ‘cause plastic’s, like, a fucking fun factory for bacteria and Joe has some hygiene issues. “I have no idea, man, does Gerard Way have a fucking tiny blue parakeet?”

Butcher arches an eyebrow and carefully sets aside his… maybe it’s a huge fucking pipe or something. That’d be sweet.

“Gerard Way,” Butcher says, getting up and going over to the giant plastic storage container of monthly mags, since everyone in the apartment seems to have a problem – Andy’s got a fucking D&D gamer subscription, Frank signed Joe up to Cat Fancy last spring, the telemarketer just has a fucking sexy voice, they’ve all agreed – and dumps it out over the coffee table.

“Gerard Way,” Butcher says again, “backed by Saporta, famous for The Black Parade, oft seen with the lovely Lyn-Z—aha.” He pulls out one of his Douchebag Today art magazines or what-the-fuck-ever, flips some pages and then waves the results under Frank’s nose.

Frank grabs it out of his hands, scowling.

“This isn’t—huh.” The guy in the black and white photo spread looks slick, artfully mussed, sophisticated, _hot_. It’s Bird Dude alright. Frank’s always thought Bird Dude was awesome, but he also comes across as kind of a complete fucking neurotic mess. This—this is his Gerard - same big eyes and wide smile and tiny, pointy nose - but it isn’t, not really. “Well, fuck me. And he’s dating a _girl_?”

Butcher shrugs.

“Shit,” Frank says. That’s just heartily disappointing.

*

Joe lasts approximately ten minutes after Brendon leaves, hiding out behind the counter. He finishes his coffee, tosses the cup in the silver chrome trash can just to the side of Brendon’s kiosk, then shoves his hands in his pockets, whistling.

He grins at Bob.

Bob looks like he maybe wants to kill him with his bare hands.

Joe waves.

Bob’s expression goes just a shade darker, and Joe takes a split-second to think maybe he’s pushed the dude too far – manhandling, he’s fond of, but Joe doesn’t want to, like, actually get hurt here.

He takes a step back and grabs for his guitar. Bob doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d destroy a man’s livelihood. Joe figures his best defense is to hide behind his moneymaker.

“Bob,” Joe says when Bob’s close enough to hear him, his hand resting on the pommel of his baton, still thankfully holstered at his waist – and Joe thinks the baton’s pretty funny, but he’s not ever going to make a rent-a-cop joke in Bob’s presence.

Bob doesn’t say anything. Joe’s gotten Bob to say maybe four words directly to him in the three months he’s been haunting 201. Bob’s hulking and laconic and he’s got a suspicious looking mark on his lip, like maybe he’s got a lip ring, like maybe he’s secretly _even more awesome_ when he isn’t at his day job.

Joe, despite his earlier bravado, stutters over a, “I’ll just, um. I’ll see myself—out?” and wheels around towards the door, nervously tugging his scarf – a knit number that Ray gave him the week before, and Joe’s may be a little insulted by all the bum assumptions, but Ray gives him some badass clothes; half the awesome t-shirts in his and Frank’s collection are from him – tighter around his throat.

Bob’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, steering him steadily past the revolving doors and out into the mellow October sunlight.

He blinks a little, and by the time Joe spins around again, Bob’s already back inside. As always, their encounter wasn’t as fun as he’d been hoping it’d be. Sucks.

Sighing, he drops down onto the sidewalk, propped up against the carved stone balustrade curving left at the bottom of the front stoop, shifting his guitar into his lap. He strums a few chords, thinks about playing a Run DMC song, only that’s not as fun without Frank, and starts on an original instead. Joe’s awesome at writing songs. This one’s about how much of a douche Bill is when he’s drunk.

“I like that.”

Joe glances up to find Frank’s Bird Dude standing in front of him, Ben perched on top of his head.

“Thanks, man,” Joe says. “I call it Stop Drunk Dialing My Mom.”

“I like it better than Butcher Has A Hate Thing About Your Shoes.”

Joe bobs his head. It’s a high compliment, since Joe knows Butcher Has A Hate Thing is one of Bird Dude’s favorites.

Bird Dude hunches his shoulders, chin disappearing into the folds of his hoodie. He’s got a sketch pad clutched to his chest and something dark smudged across his forehead. It looks like Ben’s eating pieces of his hair.

“Um.” Bird Dude digs into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled paper. “Can you—can you give this to Frank for me?”

“Sure.” Joe flattens his hand on the strings, making a hollow thump. “But, like, you might see him tomorrow.”

“I might not, too,” Bird Dude says with a shrug, then bends down and stuffs the paper plus a couple bills into Joe’s upended hat.

“No problem.” Joe salutes with him with his pick.

*

Brendon is in love with Spencer Smith. It’s stupid, because Spencer has a very hot and sweet girlfriend and would never ever be interested in Brendon in, like, a million and one years, but Brendon is still head-over-heels in love with him.

He settles down next to Patrick on the front steps of 201 and leans onto his shoulder.

“Hey,” Patrick says thickly through a bite of his sandwich.

Hobo Joe is on his feet, jiving to a ditty about how much he loves fried chicken. Brendon cannot relate, as he is currently a vegetarian. Patrick smells like maple-glazed turkey and bacon. Brendon buries his nose in Patrick’s polo and pretends that he doesn’t miss meat like burning.

“See you inside,” Spencer says, pressing an overly-familiar hand to the top of Brendon’s head as he walks past them and up the stairs. Brendon thinks Spencer’s overly-familiar hand is awesome.

Lunch had been the kind of torture that he dreams of, with Spencer laughing at his jokes and flicking his hair out of his eyes in that totally fucking hot way that he does; with Ryan texting Jon and relating all of Jon’s texts back to them with a wry half-smile. Jon is Brendon’s very favorite person that he’s never met. Brendon’s half convinced Ryan’s made Jon Walker up completely, except he doesn’t actually think Ryan has that good of an imagination.

“What’s up?” Patrick asks. He carefully wraps up the uneaten half of his sandwich and sets it aside, along with a bag of sourdough pretzel knuckles.

“Nothing.” Brendon’s totally not going to be a girl about this. He’s not going to pine from afar or whatever. He’s going to get over himself and, like, ask out one of the Alexes from the mailroom.

Patrick makes a skeptical harrumphing sound, but just tips his hat back with his thumb. “So what did you think of Greyskull last night?”

“Killer, man,” Brendon says, straightening up from his slouch. “They rocked the fuck out. I can’t believe Bob didn’t tell us.”

“Bob doesn’t tell anybody anything,” Patrick says, then calls over, “Play the one about your cat, Joe,” and Brendon thinks he mainly does that ‘cause he knows it’s secretly Brendon’s favorite.

Joe says, “I changed the chorus, you’re gonna fucking love it,” and gives them a thumbs up.

*

“I’m gonna marry Bob and have all his babies,” Joe says, slumping down further into the sofa.

Frank giggles.

“Fabulous,” Bill says from beside him. And then, “Who’s Bob?”

“My future husband,” Joe says, and then Bill uncrosses his legs and Butcher groans and leans out of his armchair to slap at his knees and say, “Fuck’s sake, Bills,” because everyone knows Bill never wears any underwear with his fucking skirts, since he says his boxers bunch and briefs are just unmanly, never mind the fact that wearing a skirt makes him sort of a girl anyway.

Bill calls them kilts, but they’re really just pleated uniform skirts that Butcher’s sister tossed after graduation.

“Oh, wait. Wait, wait.” Joe hitches his hips up and digs into his back pocket. “Got something for you, Iero.”

Frank’s got half a handful of grated mozzarella up to his mouth, little pieces sprinkling his t-shirt, plastic bag cradled between his thighs. His “What?” comes out garbled.

Joe waves around the paper. “From Bird Dude.”

“Gerard,” Frank says, only he says it morosely. Bitter, even.

Butcher snickers.

The paper flutters down into Frank’s lap and Frank snorts as he looks it over. “It’s a half-assed gallery invite.”

“Dude.” Butcher snatches it off Frank and whistles. “Fuck, it’s for The Basement, we’re totally going.”

“We?”

“It says bring whoever, Iero, I’m not missing a Saporta gig just ‘cause you’re a pussy,” Butcher says, dropping the invite back onto Frank’s lap. “There’s fucking lines around the block for these things.”

“Well, I’m certainly game,” Bill says.

Bill is always game, this doesn’t surprise Joe. The Basement’s pretty awesome, though; not quite a night club, not quite an art gallery. Pete had snuck him in once, and Joe’d been mightily impressed with the sheer amount of neon lights involved in the décor around the bar area.

Joe knocks Frank’s shoulder, leans close to read over the invite, and says, “You love Bird Dude. You love his budgie, man, just go to his fucking show, say hi—oh, hell yeah, free food, I’m in, too.”

*

On Wednesdays, this kid always shows up in the afternoon, backpack slung over his shoulder. Albino pale with a shock of bright red hair, clothes that practically swallow him whole. He’s gangly enough that Joe figures he’s thirteen or fourteen, even though he’s still pretty small. He’s got a fairly large range of sullen expressions, and the first time Joe saw him he’d thought for sure the kid was gonna take off with his hat full of pocket change.

“How’s it hanging, Sanford?” Joe asks. He’s strumming a mellow morning song and hums over the part about Bill having his dick all over Frank’s pillow in deference to impressionable young ears.

“It’s _Ford_ ,” Ford says darkly, frowning down at his shoes, and Joe lets his hands fall off his guitar, because Sanford always gets a reluctant smile out of him.

“Dude,” Joe says, eyebrows arched. “What’s up?”

Ford scuffs the toe of his chucks on the sidewalk and stuffs his hands deep into his hoodie pocket. “Nothing.”

Joe’s not exactly awesome with kids, but he knows not to push. He shifts over and says, “Well, come play with me then, I’m making you do the handclaps.”

“For what?” Ford says. He sits on the bottom step, bony elbows on his knees.

“Don’t know, let’s do Alice In Chains.” He plucks out a melody. “Rooster?”

“There’re no handclaps in Rooster,” Ford says.

Joe shakes his head. “Feel the beat, man, there’s always handclaps. I thought you said your dad was a drummer.”

“Dad doesn’t do handclaps,” Ford says, and there’s that frown again, wavering on the cusp of a scowl. Joe figures that’s where the trouble’s originating from, the infamous father.

Joe’s seen his mom, this Amazonian redhead with amazing tits, but he’s never seen his dad around. That doesn’t mean Ford doesn’t usually have a million worshipful things to say about him, though. It’s like all the emo teen melts out of him, leaving behind a kid who still maybe thinks his dad’s some kind of superhero.

Except that doesn’t happen today. Huh.

Before Joe can start the beginning riff, Ford says, “I turned thirteen last week.”

“Happy birthday, kid,” Joe says.

Ford glares at his hands. “Dad said I could go watch him play after I turned thirteen, only he won’t let me go to The Basement tomorrow night.”

“Whoa.” First of all, his dad’s playing The Basement? Totally cool. Second of all, “You don’t want to go to The Basement, I’m with your dad on this one.”

Ford transfers his glare to Joe.

Joe points a finger at him. “Your first show shouldn’t be at The Basement. You should hold out for Angels and Kings.” Joe’s heard rumors about Saporta. Exposure to Saporta at such a young age could cause blindness or seizures or some shit. “Now follow my lead or you’ll fuck up my tips.”

Ford’s mouth flattens into its normal disgruntled line.

Joe just flashes him a grin.

*

Somehow, the mysterious Jon Walker has gotten a hold of Brendon’s cell number. Brendon honestly doesn’t know how, it’s not like he’s ever given it to Ryan or Spencer, and Jon’s currently in, like, Bangladesh or something.

First, it’s only: _dude its jwalk_

And: _kitten time_ , with a little picture of a tiny, big-eared spotted cat.

But then it’s: _u should ask spence out_

And: _he thinks ur cuuuute_

Brendon’s cheeks heat and his palms get a little sweaty, but he still texts back: _fuck off_ , and: _hehas a gf fucker_

 _fight for ur man u big girl_ , Jon sends.

Brendon bites his lower lip. It’s ridiculous. He glances up and watches Spencer across the lobby, biting his nails and staring off into the middle distance. His hair’s caught in his headset, and when he happens to catch Brendon looking at him, his whole face creases into a sudden grin. Fuck.

 _I hate u_ , Brendon texts Jon, then shoves the cell into his back pocket and hops off his stool.

Brendon has the dubious honor of being Gabe Saporta’s stepbrother.

The downside of this is that Gabe can be alternately both sadistic and oblivious, and he’d once locked Brendon in a supply closet with the captain of their high school football team who, contrary to rumors Brendon’s convinced Gabe started himself, did not actually like cock.

The upside is that Gabe’s ridiculously generous and loyal and always has Brendon’s back, which is how the captain of their high school football team ended up with a permanent limp.

Plus, Brendon always gets into The Basement for free.

Brendon’s cell vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it and makes his way over to reception. He wiggles his toes in his sneakers and thinks about what exactly he wants to say in response to Spencer’s expectant eyebrow arch, and then he just blurts out, “Greyskull’s playing The Basement this Thursday.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, because they all kind of knew that, what with Bob working there and all and Patrick spreading the buzz.

Brendon nods. “Wanna go?” he asks, then feels like a tool and immediately backtracks with, “I mean, you can bring Haley and Ryan or whoever.”

Spencer taps his fingers on his ink blotter. “I thought it was a gallery showing, though,” he says. “Think Bob’ll put us on the list?”

“Um.” Brendon doesn’t actually want to bring up Gabe. Brendon _never_ wants to bring up Gabe, no matter how much he loves him. Or has to love him, whatever, it’s been, like, twelve years since that fateful day when his dad went crazy and married Gabe’s mom. He says, “We’re good. We’d be good, I mean.” He fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. “No problems.” Brendon is officially a spaz, geez.

Spencer says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Brendon bounces a little and clutches the edge of Spencer’s desk.

Spencer shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

*

Gerard never knows what to wear to these things, even though he’s been showing his stuff for going on five years, and showing his stuff with Gabe for nearly two of them.

He always agonizes over his closet for, like, an hour, and calls Mikey every five minutes and Mikey tells him to wear what-the-fuck-ever and to stop harassing him and to eat something before he works himself up into passing out.

Gerard ends up pulling on his favorite black pants and a t-shirt that he doesn’t think has any holes in it - except for the one under his arm, but no one can see that anyway – and eating a can of cold spaghettios.

Ben watches him from the back of a kitchen chair, all judge-y and shit, since he knows he’s not allowed to go. Gerard really wishes he could bring him, but Ben gets nervous around crowds and, like, starts pecking out people’s eyes. Which in theory is pretty fucking awesome, but in practice gets a little messy.

“Ford’s coming down to watch you,” Gerard says.

Ben tucks his head under a wing and starts preening. Gerard frowns. He hates it when Ben ignores him.

Gerard’s cell phone goes off at the same time as the knock at his apartment door. Ford’s knock is perfunctory, though, and by the time Gerard’s got his shoes and jacket on, Ford’s settled on his couch with a soda and the TV remote.

“Okay,” Gerard says. He clasps his hands together and stands in front of the couch. “You need to call your mom at nine.”

“Sure,” Ford says absently, craning his neck so he can see the screen around Gerard’s body.

Gerard huffs a sigh. Ford’s extra pissy tonight, Bob warned him. Gerard’s cell buzzes again – Brian’s text says _hurry thfuckup_ – and he gestures towards a bag sitting beside the TV. “Mikey brought his PS3 over for you.”

Ford shouts, “Yes!” and Gerard hops out of the way, alarmed, as Ford dives for the console.

Mikey, Gerard concedes, is a genius.

*

Joe’s a big fan of finger foods. He’s a lover of shrimp and cocktail wieners and bacon-wrapped scallops and tiny spinach quiches and veggie dip and little blocks of jack cheese.

“Pigs in a blanket, dude,” Joe says to Frank. “Food of the gods.”

Frank grins at him over a cracker piled five-high with cheese.

The place is packed, but lit better than it had been during Joe’s previous visit, which is probably because of the art plastered all over the walls. Joe isn’t particularly cultured, but he can appreciate a good zombie massacre. Bird Dude has some talent, Joe isn’t going to lie.

Speaking of - Joe nods a hello at Gerard as he sneaks up behind Frank.

“Awesome show, dude,” Joe says. He waves a baby carrot at him.

Gerard beams. His hair is crazy and his cheeks are flushed. “Thanks. Glad you guys could make it.”

Frank tries to scowl, Joe can see the crease forming in between his eyes, but Joe knows he’s too damn impressed, and sated on cheese and fruit, so it doesn’t actually work all that well.

And then Gerard grabs Frank’s arm and says, “I finished the zombie puppy, wanna see?” and he’s dragging Frank off before Frank can even protest.

Frank tosses a half-desperate look over his shoulder at Joe, but Joe just bites into a wiener and grins.

There’s a low hum of music in the background, but it’s nothing overpowering as Joe makes his way down the buffet table. He packs a plate full of extras and strolls over to lean against a wall, in between a giant painting of a craggy old man and one that depicts some crazy Hell battle with awesome blood splatters and skeleton beasts and shit.

That’s where Bob finds him.

Joe’s got a buffalo wing between his teeth when his light’s blocked by Bob’s hulking frame, and while his body buzzes with silent appreciation – he was right about the lip ring, and Bob’s hair is angled across his face; the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, exposing really fantastic forearms and thick wrists – he recognizes Bob’s expression; he’s only seconds away from being escorted not-so-politely from the building.

“Not sure you have authority here, dude,” Joe says, and, seriously, if Joe were really a hobo, how the fuck does Bob think he got into The Basement? Security isn’t exactly lax.

Bob looks like he wants to argue, though. He says, “Joe,” and rubs a hand over his forehead, like Joe’s mere presence in his life is so fucking tiring.

“Relax, man, I was invited,” Joe says, which is not specifically true, but close enough. “You’re not working, I’m not working—”

“You don’t work, Joe,” Bob says, and hey, a full sentence, _awesome_.

Joe grins up at him. “You say that because you haven’t heard me play. I’ve got an awesome repertoire. I’ve got _groupies_ ,” Joe says. “And, like, special guest stars, you should totally come jam with me one day.”

Bob’s scowling, but Joe can totally tell he’s smiling on the inside. His eyes aren’t nearly so filled with rage, for one. “Angels and Kings,” Bob says finally.

“Uh. What?”

“You told Ford to hold out for Angels and Kings,” Bob says, and holy hat stands, Batman, are they having an actual _conversation_ here? Coolest night ever.

“Sure,” Joe says, shrugging. “Me and Pete are tight, dude.” And Pete occasionally lends him money and never actually expects it back, which is a plus. “It’s a dive, but at least the kid won’t be fucking traumatized.”

Bob nods. He watches Joe with narrowed eyes, mouth pressed together, and Joe widens his own eyes and tries to look like he totally does not need to be tossed anywhere - unless they’re talking, like, a prelude to sexin’ - and Bob makes an amused sound low in his throat.

“Stay out of trouble,” Bob says, and turns, and Joe takes a moment to appreciate his fine, fine ass as he walks away. And then he notices the drumsticks tucked into Bob’s back pocket, and he thinks, _shit_. Ford, drummer, The Basement.

Joe isn’t dumb, just occasionally a little slow.

And Joe can’t have all of Bob’s babies, apparently, because Bob already _has_ one. Fuck.

*

Ryan steers Spencer around the crowd, pushing him towards the front doors. Spencer balks a little and says, “Maybe we should wait for Brendon.” This isn’t exactly Spencer’s scene, and he’s feeling a little out of place. The Basement brings out the all the crazies. Spencer’s pretty sure he spotted some dude in a spacesuit at the end of the block.

“He’s fifteen minutes late,” Ryan says. “I thought you said Bob put you guys on the list.”

“No.” Spencer shakes his head. “No, I said _maybe_ Bob’ll put us on the list.” Brendon hadn’t seemed to think getting in would be a problem, but Spencer has his doubts. He’d rather wait and see if Brendon, like, planned on sneaking them in a backdoor or something. He doesn’t actually want to make a fool out of himself with the bouncer.

It just figures that Ryan doesn’t say a word once they’re standing out front. He pokes Spencer in the back and Spencer heaves a tremendous, put-upon sigh and says, “I think we’re on the list. Spencer Smith?”

The guy flips some pages and shakes his head. “Don’t see you,” he says, and he sounds mostly apologetic, which is nice, if unhelpful. This is ridiculous.

“Okay, thanks,” Spencer says, flicking Ryan an irritated look. “We should call Brendon.”

“Urie?” the bouncer dude says. He snorts. “Kid never remembers to give me any names.”

“Um.” Spencer wrinkles his nose, then spots Brendon jogging down the block towards them, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket and a scarf loose around his neck.

“Zack, Zack, wait,” Brendon says, coming to panting stop and hanging off of the bouncer’s arm. “They’re with—”

“I figured, Urie.” Zack rolls his eyes. “Go on in.”

“You’re the best,” Brendon says, giving Zack a quick hug before waving Spencer and Ryan forward.

“Come on, come on,” Brendon says, practically bouncing through the doors. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem,” Spencer says.

Brendon gives him a huge grin and unwinds his scarf, tossing it into the coat check window so it slithers off the counter and onto the floor on the other side. He hops up and leans into the darkened room. “Greta,” he says. “Sweetpea, darling, kindred spirit—”

“I’ve got it, peanut,” a girl, presumably Greta, says, emerging from the back. “Let Gabe know you’re here this time, though. You know he hates it when you lurk.”

Brendon tosses a weird, nervous glance towards Spencer and Ryan, and Ryan hooks an arm around Spencer’s neck. “Strange things are afoot,” Ryan says into his ear.

Spencer makes a face. “I guess you come here a lot?” he asks Brendon, and Greta laughs, like that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard, and then this tall dude with a huge afro swoops in and tugs Brendon against his side, says, “Little man.”

Ryan hisses, digs his nails into Spencer’s shoulder.

“What the fuck, Ross,” Spencer says, trying to shrug him off.

“That’s _Travis McCoy_ ,” Ryan says, vibrating a little along Spencer’s back.

The name sounds familiar. Spencer thinks maybe Travis McCoy is in one of Ryan’s bands; the weird, experimental ones that Jon got him into that use a lot of cowbells and synthesizers and beat poetry.

Ryan says, “This is going to be the best night _ever_.”

*

The front woman of Greyskull is a tiny blonde with kick-ass legs and an accent that emphasizes the simple lyrics just different enough to make them interesting.

Frank’s really not paying them much attention, though, because Gerard’s painted a fucking _amazing_ picture of a zombie shih tzu. It’s freaky as hell, and pretty much the best thing Frank’s ever seen.

“I really like how you exposed the bone here,” Frank says, pointing at the puppy’s chest. “Like you can almost see a piece of his heart.”

Gerard nods, grinning this huge-ass grin that kind of makes Frank’s breath catch. “Someone loved him once,” Gerard says, and Frank grins back at him until he realizes he’s just, like, grinning at Gerard like a great big, creepy shithead, and a flush starts up from his neck.

“Um. Where’s Ben?” he asks.

“Home,” Gerard says. “Last time I brought him to one of these things, he shit all over the buffet and made Brian bleed. From his eyes.”

“Sounds _awesome_.”

“Totally,” Gerard says, and then it gets awkward, because Frank has this crazy, insane urge to maybe tackle Gerard into a dark nook and lick his face off, but Gerard has a _girlfriend_. It totally sucks.

“So, uh. Lyn-Z?” Frank says, and then considers punching himself in the face, what the fuck.

Gerard cocks his head. “Yeah? Have you seen her work?”

“No, but. My roommate mentioned her. Butcher’s a big fan of,” Frank waves a hand around.

The tops of Gerard’s cheeks pink. “Oh.”

“Yeah, so.” Frank has no idea what he’s doing here. “Maybe I should let you mingle?”

“Oh no,” Gerard says, grabbing his arm and pulling him close. “No, no, I’m not allowed to mingle, Brian says I make everyone uncomfortable.”

Frank bites his lip and tries not to laugh. “Okay.”

“No, really.” Gerard nods. He’s frowning, but Frank can see an amused light in his eyes. “I don’t get it. I mean, I paint vampires and shit, but apparently I freak everyone out in person. I don’t even know why Gabe always wants me to come to these things.”

“Maybe it’s the hair,” Frank says.

Gerard makes an alarmed sound and reaches up, runs both hands over his head, making it stand up even more, and Frank just loses it, leaning into Gerard’s arm, giggling, because Gerard’s so fucking _adorable_ , it’s not even fair.

*

Brendon thinks maybe this whole night was a bad idea. It’s impossible to hide from Gabe, first of all, Spencer looks uncomfortable and Ryan’s been staring at him with big, creepy, admiring eyes.

“So you’re Spencer,” Gabe says. He’s leaning forward, nose-to-nose - not because he’s actually a freaky close-talker, Brendon knows, but just because he gets off on making people squirm.

Spencer holds his ground, though, and narrows his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Excellent,” Gabe says. “I approve.”

Brendon covers his face with his hands. Gabe is so embarrassing. Plus, Brendon should never ever drink on family dinner nights. Gabe can pretty much get Brendon to spill anything, including his epic and doomed love for Spencer Smith. And Brendon should totally be grateful Gabe approves, actually, because sometimes _dis_ approval leads to Gabe groping him in public to stake some sort of fucked up claim - he really thinks it’d be easier if he was _actually_ related to Gabe; he’s pretty sure there wouldn’t be any weird incest vibes then.

“So, um, Gabe’s my stepbrother,” Brendon says, cheeks hot.

“Nonsense,” Gabe says, squeezing Brendon up against his side. “There’re no caveats in this family, bro. Holy shit, look at the stems on that dude.” Gabe wolf-whistles, then ruffles Brendon’s hair. “I’m off. Come find me when you leave.”

“Wow,” Ryan says, staring after Gabe.

“Yeah.” Brendon tries on a sheepish smile. Why oh why did Brendon ever listen to Jon Walker?

Spencer looks kind of pissed, maybe, lips pursed, but then he just shakes his head and breaks out into this bright grin, and it’s like the whole entire room lights up.

Brendon’s in such big shit.

 

*

  
It rains on Friday. Fucking pours, right in the middle of Joe’s after-lunch set, and it fits Joe’s mood exactly.

He’s strumming a melancholy Homefries For Hangovers when the drizzle that’s been steady all day turns heavy, thick and cold; sheets of it, like the sky’s just cracked completely open. It sucks, but Joe just sighs and scoots back further under the overhang – he’s been up at the top of the steps all afternoon, crouched near the building wall, and he figures Ray must be working, ‘cause no ones kicked him off them yet.

He’s soaked through anyway, though, and thinking about calling it a day. It’s not like there’s anyone out – he made five bucks that morning, and Argyle Dude gave him a grin and a twenty, which Joe figures is recompense for eating inside, dry, and not sharing his lunch.

He sniffles, swipes a hand under his nose, catching water dripping from the hair plastered to his skull. Wet’s not a good look for him, he knows this.

“Jesus Christ.”

Joe sneezes and glances up at Bob. He’s not wearing his uniform, so Joe guesses he was right about Ray. “Heya, Bob,” he says.

Bob reaches down and grabs Joe’s arm, hauling him to his feet. “Come on.”

“Whoa, dude, it’s fucking torrential out, you’re not even working, don’t you think I could—”

“Shut up,” Bob says. “Cover your guitar if you don’t want it to get ruined.”

Joe’s guitar is already warped – he lost the case years ago, a hazard of street performing – but it’s decent, if a little temperamental. He’s got a sheet of plastic for occasions such as these, and he wraps up his old acoustic, more than a little pissed that Bob’s throwing him out in the fucking rain. On his _day off_. It’s like—when did Joe ever do anything to make Bob this much of an asshole towards him?

Bob doesn’t let him go when they reach the bottom of the stairs, though, and Joe’s forced to double-up his steps to keep pace, not have his arm wrenched out of its socket.

“Is this where you pull me into a dark alley and beat the shit out of me?” Joe asks. He’s mainly being funny. He doesn’t honestly think Bob’s gonna wail on him. For the most part.

Bob slants him an unreadable look, but he lets up on his hold a little and slows down. He tugs Joe closer against his side, though, arm sliding over Joe’s shoulders, like his already sopping wet hoodie could shelter him from the rain. The gesture makes Joe smile a little, even if it’s pointless.

“An umbrella would be awesome,” Joe says, still grinning even when Bob snorts and yanks on a clump of his hair.

Joe’s apartment is ten blocks behind 201 and three blocks to the left.

Bob keeps straight down Independence, then silently steers him into a four storey walk-up, a neat and tidy square of brick, the first floor windows underlined with dirt boxes and slow-dying mums.

“Swank,” Joe murmurs.

The foyer smells musty and damp from the humidity. Joe follows Bob up the stairs, both of them dripping all over the well-worn carpet. At the second floor landing, a door pulls open with an anxious, “Bob!”

“Bird Dude,” Joe says, nodding.

Gerard blinks. “Um. Hi, Joe,” he says, then turns to Bob and wrings his hands and says, “Did you see Frank? Oh, wait.” He switches his gaze to Joe again. “Was Frank out today?”

Joe shrugs. Before it’d started drizzling, he and Frank had rocked some early morning Anthrax, but Frank’s, like, a delicate fucking flower, so he’d wussed out before he could catch a cold and fucking die or something. “He’s at home,” Joe says.

Bob gives him another _look_ , what the fuck, like he thinks Joe’s lying.

“Oh, come on, we’re not _homeless_ , okay,” Joe says. He hugs his guitar close to his stomach.

“No,” Bob says slowly, “you just sleep on the floor of your friend’s apartment.”

Joe’s brow furrows. Who the hell has Bob been talking to? “I _live_ there.” An air mattress is still a mattress, and he’s got his duffel stashed neatly in the bottom of Butcher’s closet.

Bob rolls his eyes and mutters, “Christ,” under his breath, then says, louder, “Come on,” and starts up the stairs again.

Joe wants to be offended, but he’s soaked and cold and it’s Bob, so whatever. He says, “See you, Gerard,” because he’s got _manners_ \- sometimes, at least - and shuffles after Bob, sneakers squelching with each step.

*

Brendon normally likes rainy days, because it makes the inside of the building cozier, the piping hot coffee somehow more delicious.

Today, the rain just seems to be making him itchy. He’s— _unhappy_ , he thinks is the word for it. Brendon really hates being unhappy.

“What’s up with you, dude?” Ray says, setting down a pair of threes.

Brendon shrugs. “Nothing. D’you have any queens?”

“Go fish.” Ray tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek. “Nines?”

Brendon slides one across the counter with a sigh. Ray is uncannily good at this game.

“Seriously, man. I’ve never seen you this down,” Ray says.

Brendon makes a face and looks off towards the front of the lobby. It’s not like he can pinpoint an exact reason, except for how he totally can: its name rhymes with fail-y and it’s sitting on Spencer’s desk, laughing, with a short skirt and a bag of gummy worms. Legs and candy, Brendon doesn’t really blame Spencer for being unable to resist. It still really sucks, though.

He’s thinking about maybe joining Hobo Joe outside for a while when he realizes Hobo Joe is no longer under the building awning. Huh. “Where’d Joe go?” Brendon asks.

“I called Bob. Are we still playing?”

Brendon blinks at him. “You called _Bob_?”

“Well, um.” Ray scratches an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Huh.” Brendon bites his lower lip, but can’t help the grin creeping across his face. That’s really kind of funny.

Ray says, “You know. It’s raining. I figured Bob could take him home for a little while.”

A giggle slips out, Brendon ducks his head a little. “Okay.” That’s kind of _hilarious_ , actually.

“I mean.” Ray grins at him. “It’s not like Joe has the biggest and most obvious crush in the entire universe on him.”

“You’re right,” Brendon says, very carefully. “Because that would be awkward.”

Ray bobs his head, hair flopping all over the place. “Totally.”

“So, ah.” Brendon clears his throat, giggles some more, then presses a hand to his mouth and clears his throat again. “Got any fives?”

*

Haley’s an accountant on six. She’s been in 201 for three months, just about as long as Hobo Joe’s been haunting their front steps, and she’s awesome. She’s funny and hot and shares her candy and Spencer’s had sex with her four times in the supply closet down the hall and to the left, and once in the executive bathrooms up on ten.

So he has absolutely no clue why he opens his mouth and says, “This isn’t working,” like a giant fucking _moron_.

Haley’s teeth click around a gummy worm and Spencer winces involuntarily.

She chews slowly, watching him with a blank look, then smoothes out her skirt and slips to her feet. “Okay,” she finally says.

Spencer palms the back of his neck. He can feel his face heat up and his heart’s in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Haley nods. She starts around him, then stops by his elbow, presses a hand to his shoulder. She opens her mouth, closes it again and shakes her head, lips pursed.

This is kind of out of nowhere, he thinks, but at the same time it’s kind of not. Fucking Jon Walker. He plants these little, inconspicuous _bombs_ , these tiny ridiculous thoughts that fuck up your life, seriously, he needs to kick Jon’s ass when they’re on the same continent again.

He slumps down and thumps his forehead onto his desk.

Absently, he works his cell phone out of his pocket, slides it open and texts Jon: _u r the worst friend ever_

 _untrue_ , Jon sends back almost immediately, _i’m awesome._

Spencer laughs, short, but weirdly unstrained, and types: _broke up w haley_

 _good_ , Jon texts, because Jon is an ass. _go sweep bden ofhis feet!! hes little its ttly doable_

 _seriously u suck_ , Spencer sends, and Jon replies with a pic of a big-eyed monkey sitting on top of Tom’s shoulders and picking at his hair with the caption: _monkeys attaaaaack!_

Spencer sighs – there’s something seriously _wrong_ with Jon Walker - but he’s smiling when he looks up across the lobby, watches Ray and Brendon playing cards over Brendon’s kiosk counter.

It’s still raining out, and the fluorescent lights overhead seem brighter than usual, making his eyes sting a little.

He can hear Ray’s voice, but can’t make out the words. Brendon pouts and slides another card off the pile in between them, stuffing it into his already thick hand. Brendon _always_ loses at Go Fish, it’s like the entire world of matching pairs is against him, but he loses _spectacularly_ when battling Ray.

Brendon glances up and waves at him and Spencer leans back in his chair, taking in Brendon’s bright eyes, the upward curve of his mouth. Brendon’s pretty hot, honestly. This sweeping him off his feet deal that Jon’s pushing isn’t exactly the worst idea in the world.

Spencer smiles and waves back.

*

Frank huddles on the couch, wrapped up in a thick blanket, and gives Butcher puppy-eyes. Butcher isn’t looking at him - too busy making a bongo drum or something, Frank’s not sure, it could be a hat – but Frank knows he can _feel_ the puppy-eyes. They’re totally potent, Frank can totally rock the helpless orphaned waif look, and the corner of Butcher’s mouth is twitching.

Frank sends out _hot chocolate_ and _cookie_ vibes. There’s a damp chill in the apartment, and Frank doesn’t want to leave the comfort of his couch cocoon.

“It’s not going to work, Frank,” Butcher says.

“It’s totally going to work,” Frank says, still staring at the top of Butcher’s bent head. He just has to wait it out.

The door bursts open and Bill sashays in, shaking his wet hair like a particularly fashionable Afghan hound. He’s in pants for once, which is surprising, but not as surprising as the guy who follows Bill into the apartment, taller than Bill by increments, slightly crazy around the eyes. Gabe Saporta. Frank recognizes him from his posters.

“Hello, minions,” Gabe says, spreading his arms wide. “How are we this fine afternoon?”

Butcher blinks up at him, snorts, then goes back to his—maybe it’s a bucket? Frank doesn’t know what they’d need a bucket for, but the kitchen floor is kind of gross. He wouldn’t be against it getting a good mopping.

Frank tugs his blanket closer and shrinks back along the arm of the couch. He’s totally not sharing. Bill always mooches his stuff. Frank’s been wrapped up naked with Bill too many times to count. It’s really not as pleasant as it sounds; Bill’s got sharp elbows and knees, and a tendency towards open-mouthed snoring. Bill, though, is much more amendable to Frank’s needy whims than the Butcher.

“Bill,” Frank whines and flutters his eyelashes at him, sending him the same vibes he’s been aiming at Butcher’s head for the past half hour.

“Cookies,” Bill says after a slight pause, arms crossed and one hip cocked.

Gabe snuggles up behind him, arms draped over Bill’s shoulders. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes at Frank. There’s a speculative gleam there, and then his face clears, smoothes out into a huge grin. “Hot chocolate,” he says.

Gabe’s very obviously a good guy. Frank likes the cut of his jib.

“I wanna subscribe to your newsletter, dude,” Frank tells Gabe, nodding, and Gabe flicks non-existent lint off Bill’s collarbone and says, “Doesn’t everyone?”

*

Bob has no fucking idea why, but he likes Joe. There’s just something about him, about the way he doesn’t seem to give a fuck about what people think of him, about the way he deliberately bugs the shit out of him – Bob _knows_ it’s deliberate, to get his attention, he’s not dumb – about the way he deals with his kid.

Ford likes Joe, and Joe’s been more than decent to Ford, doesn’t brush him off or get annoyed when he hangs around. That goes a long way with Bob.

Bob’s beginning to think he’s made a huge mistake, though, bringing Joe home. Joe looks like a drowned cat, hair curling wetly against his skull. He’s got a towel around his neck, decked out in a pair of Ford’s sweatpants and an old t-shirt of Bob’s, neck stretched so wide it’s slipping down Joe’s shoulder.

He’s smiling at Bob around a cup of coffee, sitting at the kitchen table, and Bob feels like a fucking tool. Like Joe’s playing him somehow, even though he can’t figure out the angle. What possible thing could Joe gain from trying to provoke Bob into beating him to death? Not that Bob’s thinking about doing that. Bob _likes_ him too much, and what the fuck is that, seriously.

“Where’s Ford?” Joe asks, placing his mug on the table but keeping his hands wrapped around it, fingers overlapping.

“His mom’s.” Bob’s leaning back against the sink arms crossed over his chest. He stares hard at Joe, but Joe’s cheerful grin doesn’t waver.

“Awesome,” Joe says, with way more enthusiasm than Bob honestly thinks that answer warranted, but whatever.

“Okay,” Bob says, draws out, one eyebrow arched.

“So, hey, can I use your shower?”

*

“This was your idea,” Gerard says, hunching his shoulders.

Ben, tucked in his hood at the crook of his neck, takes a nip at his ear.

“No, for real, I’m blaming you.”

Ben chirps, “Douche,” and pecks at his earlobe again.

Gerard feels like an idiot, soaking wet, standing in front of Frank’s door, shifting back and forth on his feet. He’s trying to decide whether to knock or not. Because he’s an idiot. He’s _there_. He’s made it that far – and Joe hadn’t even made fun of him when he’d asked for his address, so Gerard should just _do it_. Just knock. Just knock and say hi and it’ll all be cool.

Before he can even raise his hand, though, the door jerks inward and he’s blinking down at a shirtless guy with long hair and a scruffy beard, square black-framed glasses over clear eyes.

“Man,” he says. He’s got baggy basketball shorts on and he yawns, scratching fingers over his abdomen. “Been lurking like a creeper. Who’re you here for?”

“Um. Frank?”

The guys nods, moves to the side and waves Gerard in, and Ben takes that as invitation to dive-bomb, tearing out from under Gerard’s rain-heavy hood and circling the room, nearly clipping the guy’s nose as he wings past.

“Holy shit.”

Gerard just says, “Sorry, sorry,” and catches the guy’s arm as he stumbles backwards, and then Frank’s voice is ringing out from, like, the kitchen maybe, “Ben! Little dude, ow, ow, _fucker_ , what the—”

Gerard turns bright red. He hates Ben so very much.

Frank’s grinning when he rounds the doorframe, though, Ben perched on top of his head, a green and brown blanket wrapped almost mummy-like around him.

“Gerard, hey, what are you doing here?” Frank asks, and the thing is, Gerard has no fucking clue why he’s there, except it’s Friday and they couldn’t feed the ducks and Gerard feels off-center.

“Ben missed you,” Gerard says, proving, yet again, how incredibly lame he is.

“Obviously. I fucking rock, dude,” Frank says, still grinning. His nose is red and he sniffles, rubbing the end of his blanket under his nose, and Gerard melts a little inside.

Gerard nods. “You do,” he says, and Frank gets a funny look on his face, so Gerard thinks maybe he said that a little too earnestly - but Frank fucking rocks, there’s no denying that.

Frank shakes his head, and Ben hops down to his shoulder, feather’s bristling. “Come on, we’re gonna watch Rachel Ray and destroy Butcher’s kitchen, it’ll be epic.”

“He’ll kill you,” the shirtless guy says, but he says it absent-like, and he slides on a pair of flip-flops. “I’m heading up to Mix’s, don’t set anything on fire.”

“No promises, Hurley,” Frank says, giving him a mock salute.

Gerard clasps his hands together and thinks about how this is clearly the best day of his entire life, and he doesn’t even care how much of a loser that makes him. He says, “I’m not allowed to use the toaster.” It’s Brian’s rule; he keeps burning his fingers. He makes Mikey follow it, too, but only because of the fork thing.

Frank says, “Fucking A,” and, “We’ll use the stovetop, Butcher’s even got one of those burner griddles,” and, “If you hold the gas open long enough before the lighter catches, the flames totally get _air_ , dude.”

“Cool,” Gerard says. “Are those cookies?”

*

Gabe never shows up at Brendon’s work.

This is a blessing, because Gabe has terrorized every part of Brendon’s life since he was thirteen – twelve, actually, if they’re counting that year their parents were dating – and Brendon suspects it’s only because Gabe hadn’t been entirely sure where he worked, and wasn’t interested enough to find out. Gabe’s always intense and absent and nosy and incurious, all at once.

Brendon kind of wants to slide under his counter when Gabe pushes through the revolving doors of 201, soaked to the bone but smiling huge, followed by a willowy guy in a poncho.

Ray eyes him curiously as he sinks lower and lower onto his stool, like he can hide behind Ray’s fro, then glances over his shoulder.

Gabe makes a beeline for Spencer, though, which is just as bad, and panic starts swirling in Brendon’s chest, because Gabe at the club is one thing, where it’s loud and distracting and anything he says or doesn’t say can easily be brushed off or misheard – the lobby echoes with their footsteps. It’s an ominous sound. Brendon might throw up.

Ray says, “Isn’t that—”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, jumping to his feet. The screech of his chair makes him wince, but Gabe’s eyes snap to his.

Gabe’s wily, though, and a great big asshole. He just grins, gives him a slight head-tilt as he leans into Spencer’s desk.

“This is bad,” Brendon says. He can’t hear them, but Spencer’s got a wavering smile on his face, and Gabe’s friend is fluttering his hands, looking disturbingly smug.

Spencer’s eyes flick towards Brendon.

Horror wells over him. He wishes he was close enough to jump Gabe and press both his hands over his mouth.

Spencer blanches.

Brendon considers choking himself to death on a swizzle stick.

And then Gabe chucks Spencer under the chin and whirls around, attention zeroing in on Brendon. Brendon shrinks back into his kiosk, like maybe he can blend in with the faux wood cabinets and make himself disappear.

By the time Gabe gets to him, he’s almost entirely under the counter, fingers gripping the edge, white-knuckled. Gabe leans over and waggles his eyebrows. “Brendon, bro, you’ve nothing to worry about, dude, I totally took care of everything.”

“Oh no.”

“He’s been properly warned,” Gabe says. “It’s all squared away.”

Brendon doesn’t like the sound of that. This is shaping up to be exactly like that incident in junior year, when Gabe had gotten Brendon banned from the school paper after threatening to cut off Senior Editor Cecil Wallachuck’s balls for staring just a shade too long at his little brother’s ass.

Brendon drops down to sit on the floor, and Ray squints at him. “All right?”

“Peachy,” Brendon says. He briefly considers asking Gabe exactly what he said to Spencer, but he doesn’t actually want to know. He’s pretty sure his imagination is much tamer than anything that came out of Gabe’s huge mouth.

“I’m the best fucking brother in the _universe_ ,” Gabe says, then slants a look at Ray and says, “Hello,” and, “I don’t believe we’ve met,” and, “There’s something about your hair that I greatly admire.”

Brendon hides his face in his knees.

*

Bob’s made a big mistake, bringing Joe home. This’s exactly what happened at Andy and Butcher’s place. Joe has a habit of settling in.

Plus, it’s the weekend, so Joe doesn’t need to head back to 201 ‘til Monday morning. He’s got two full days of Bob ahead of him, providing Bob doesn’t physically throw him out. It’s a risk, but Joe’s really gotten the feeling that Bob doesn’t mind him all that much. Something to do with the borrowed clothes and the coffee and the soup and the cookies and the reruns of _Magnum: PI._

The trick is to fall asleep on the couch. Joe happens to know that he looks particularly fetching while asleep – Bill’s told him often enough, and Frank keeps trying to sneak cuddles – so chances are Bob’s not gonna want to disturb his angelic slumber.

At some point, though, Bob nudges him into semi-consciousness and shuffles him off to a bed – Ford’s, he thinks, since he’s pretty sure Bob’s outgrown the half-naked girl posters on the ceiling thing – and that’s an _awesome_ sign. A sign of complacency, a chink in Bob’s armor, a tiny, little crevice Joe can worm his way into; like rust or something, only infinitely more sexy.

Another awesome sign is waking up Saturday to pancakes and a table set for three.

Joe scrubs the side of his head and Bob’s eyes settle somewhere around his hair, so he figures the fro’s looking extra spiffy.

Bob just says, “Breakfast?” though, in this gruff morning voice that Joe can feel all the way down at the bottom of his spine.

“Food would be good,” Joe says, nodding.

Ford’s already at the table, iPod on, bobbing his head, one foot rhythmically tapping his chair leg. He gives Joe a wave and then Bob tugs one of his earbuds out and says, “Not at the table,” and Ford makes a face but obediently turns his music off and sets it aside.

“Sanford,” Joe says, reaching out to bump his fist.

Ford grins. “Hi.”

“You’re in a better mood.” Joe sits across from him, watching Bob out of the corner of his eye, standing over by the stove.

Ford half shrugs. “Guess so.”

Bob cuffs the back of Ford’s head as he slides a plate of pancakes onto the table, gives Joe a smile with his eyes, even though his mouth’s down-turned at the corners.

Joe’s heart skips a fucking _beat._

This, this right here, is kind of what he wants for the rest of his life.

*

“Why so fucking glum, dude,” Frank says, dropping down onto the steps next to Joe.

Joe’s frowning, playing Fucked Up Love Song already, the one he wrote about Hurley and Mixon and their weirdly intricate heterosexual lifemate status.

Joe shakes his head. “Just found out I’m a family sort of man,” he says. “Fucks with your world view, you know?”

“Shit,” Frank says.

Joe closes his eyes, rubs a hand over his forehead. “I might need to get a fucking job, Frankie, how is this my life?”

Frank blinks at Joe, mind fucking _boggled_. As far as Frank knows, and Frank knows a lot, Joe hasn’t held a steady tax-paying job since 2001. He’d dropped out of college, quit his internship, and headed for the streets. Frank’s always sort of admired his gumption.

“Dude,” Frank says forlornly, clasping Joe’s shoulder. It’s a sad, sad day when Joe has to go and, like, fucking assimilate. “Are you sure?”

Joe hums a few bars of Let’s Get Nasty, Except For Bill, then thumps the flat of his hand against the strings. “He’s got a kid, a steady income, an ex-wife—”

“Huh.” Figures a security guard would be fucking _responsible_ , right.

Joe points at him. “I don’t even have a bank account.”

Frank nods, pushes up the arms of his sweater and leans his elbows on his knees. Frank doesn’t have a bank account either, because it’s too easy for people to, like, fucking steal your identity or whatever. Frank deals with cold hard cash, so The Man can’t keep tabs on his life. Frank’s a free spirit. Frank jams out with Joe at 201 or stakes out his own turf by the fountain down in the park, and pulls in enough coinage to get him coffee, smokes and a couch – although it’s actually only a couch _cushion_ , Hurley claims, but whatever, he shares it with _Bill._

“Hey.”

Frank glances up and smiles at Gerard, shifting back and forth on his feet in front of him and Joe. “Hey, Gee,” he says. “Got any requests?”

“Oh, um,” Gerard rubs the side of his forefinger across his lower lip, “I actually just wanted to see if, uh, you wanted to grab dinner? Later?”

Frank wrinkles his forehead. Hanging out with him on Friday had been fucking sweet - they almost made Butcher cry, and that’s really fucking tough to do. So he’s getting some mixed signals here, what with Gerard having a _girlfriend_ and all, but he’s pretty sure Gerard’s asking him out on a date.

Joe jostles his arm meaningfully.

“Sure,” Frank says finally. “That’d be awesome.”

Gerard’s face nearly splits in half with this huge grin, and Frank can’t help thinking that Gerard’s really fucking pretty, for a dude.

“Cool,” Gerard says, and Frank nods and grins and they stare at each other for way too long, but only Joe’s there to witness it, and Joe can’t fucking talk, after all this fucking _job_ shit he’s spewing.

“Cool,” Frank echoes.

Joe mutters, “Oh yeah, cool,” under his breath, and Frank elbows him hard in the ribs.

*

Brendon spends most of his weekend in a state of anxious panic. So when he walks into 201 Monday morning he’s amped up and fidgety and looking everywhere but Spencer’s desk. That Spencer is currently sitting at. Brendon can feel the burn of Spencer’s eyes on him as he does his best to amble _perfectly naturally_ over to his coffee kiosk.

He trips over a crack in the marble tile and goes down hard. Brendon is motherfucking _smooth._

He squeezes his eyes shut, down on his hands and knees, and when he blinks them open again, Spencer’s shoes are right in front of his nose.

“All right?” Spencer asks.

“I am awesome,” Brendon says, clambering to his feet. He swipes his stinging palms on his pants. “Totally fine.”

Spencer’s got his skeptical face on, the one he always uses on Sisky when he comes back late and mussed from his mysterious _lunch dates_ , smelling like wood chips and Old Spice. “Right,” he says.

Brendon presses his lips together and bounces on his toes.

Spencer glances off to the right, scratches the back of his neck, then says, “Your brother’s, uh, strange,” almost carefully, like he’s afraid of offending Brendon.

Which is crazy. This is _Gabe_. Gabe pretty much _invented_ strange.

“He sells his underwear on eBay,” Brendon says. Not _only_ his underwear, but Brendon doesn’t feel comfortable discussing that outside of the family.

Spencer nods. “I can see that.”

“Yeah, so.” Awkward. Brendon doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act around Spencer, now that Gabe—well, if he hasn’t out right _told_ Spencer about his great and epic love, he damn well obviously implied it.

“Huh,” Spencer says.

Brendon squints up at him. “What?”

A grin creeps across Spencer’s face. “Nothing.”

“Okay.” Brendon feels like he’s missing something. Something huge, maybe, it’s like an itch in the back of his brain, but Spencer just shakes his head, cheeks the slightest bit flushed.

Still. Brendon finds himself grinning a little, too, as Spencer walks away.

*

Jon texts Spencer: _bdens sweet on u_

 _duh_ , Spencer sends back, because he could’ve figured that out on his own, thanks, probably even without the whole Gabe Saporta threatening him thing. Spencer isn’t exactly scared of Saporta, but he’s definitely _wary_. Saporta’s got that I’ll-hire-people-to-kill-you-even-though-I-could-take-care-of-you-myself kind of vibe going on, but at the same time he’s sort of epically friendly. He reminds Spencer of Brendon in that respect. Or a dog. A particularly evil-minded dog. Like Cujo.

Spencer doesn’t like the way his thoughts are going. Maybe he _is_ a little scared of Saporta.

Then Jon texts, _told bden ur sweet on him2_ , and Spencer has the sudden and perfectly rational urge to bludgeon Jon to death with his own camera.

“I’m going to kill your boyfriend,” Spencer says to Ryan. They’re eating lunch over his desk, because Ryan’s hoping Saporta’ll stop by again, since he’s just a big, creepy fanboy at heart. This is why he never really made it in Hollywood.

Ryan chokes on a fry and scowls at Spencer. “Jon’s not my boyfriend.”

Spencer smirks. “And yet you knew exactly who I was talking about.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan says mildly, and, “You can’t kill him, he’s in Kuala Lumpur.”

“He’s going to die by my hand, mark my words,” Spencer says, nodding sagely. “How the fuck did he get Brendon’s number?” Spencer doesn’t even have Brendon’s number. He’s pretty sure Ryan doesn’t, either.

Ryan shrugs. He takes apart his burger and picks at the meat patty with his fingers, getting ketchup everywhere, because occasionally Ryan’s really disgusting. Spencer thinks he gets it from Jon, and all that time they spent together on the sets of TNBC, far away from Spencer’s soothing, civilized influence.

Ryan’s cell buzzes with a text and an evil smile breaks out across his face as he reads it. He flicks a glance at Spencer, then calls out across the lobby, “Hey, Brendon, want to come over for dinner tonight?”

Brendon eyes widen and he says, “Sure?” and Ryan arches a mocking, take-that eyebrow at Spencer.

Spencer’s mainly just amused, though. Ryan thinks he’s getting away with something, but Spencer knows where he keeps all one hundred and four episodes of _Hang Time_ , and he’s pretty sure Brendon would just _love_ to see Ryan’s awkward teenage years chronicled for all time on a teenie bopper show about basketball.

*

Bob glares at Joe when he opens the door, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell him to go away, either, just opens the door _wider_ and steps aside. How fucked up is it that he’d been _hoping_ for this? That, okay, he’d possibly been disappointed when he’d gotten off work, and Joe had already been gone?

“So what’s for dinner, Bob?” Joe asks, flopping down on the sofa in a casual slouch.

Funny thing is, though, Joe’s avoiding Bob’s eyes. He’s staring at the blank TV, and Bob’s an observant guy, he doesn’t miss the way his fingers clench in the baggy material of his jeans, like he’s steeling himself up for something. Like maybe he’s nervous. If Bob were a nice sort of guy, he’d probably try to ease Joe’s mind here – although about what, Bob’s not so sure, since it’s not like Bob’s going to throw him out _now_ , he’d let him stay there the entire weekend.

Instead, Bob stares at him so long, stares at his profile, the frozen curl of his mouth, he swears he can see Joe’s pulse pick up, fluttering at the base of his throat, just under the brush of his fucking ridiculous hair.

Ford is watching Ben for Gerard again.

Ford isn’t around, and it’s like Friday night, only Joe isn’t relaxed and sleepy on his couch, isn’t so pliable in his arms that Bob actually has to force himself to tuck Joe into Ford’s bed, keep his hands to himself.

Bob believes in fair play. Bob doesn’t take advantage, and here’s Joe, alert and challenging and wary and Bob walks over and settles down on the coffee table, in between the spread of Joe’s legs.

“What’s up with you?” he says.

Joe shifts, like he’s trying to move away, but Bob catches his knees, presses his palms down to keep them still. Bob doesn’t get why, but Joe’s face softens fractionally, smile more natural, humor lighting his eyes. He shifts again, but forward this time, sitting up straighter and catching Bob’s wrists before he can pull away. Not like Bob was going to anyway.

“I’ve had a thought,” Joe says. “A kick-ass thought, you should hear me out.”

Bob arches an eyebrow.

“Wait, just wait,” Joe says, grin going goofy, and he tugs on Bob’s left hand, seems surprised when Bob loosens his grip enough to let it slide down Joe’s thigh. “Um.”

Bob waits.

Joe stares down at his hand, then glances up at him, wide-eyed, and Bob feels a little smug.

“Yeah?” Bob prompts.

Joe clears his throat, says, “I think I should get a job.”

Huh. That. Is not at all what Bob had expected. “You have a job,” he says, which is kind of dumb, because Bob’s often pointed out the fact that Joe does not actually have a job – he’s not even sure busking is legal - but at the same time, what the fuck. “Where’s this coming from?”

Joe’s face falls a little before he rallies his expression, turning up the cheer but tilting his head to stare off into the kitchen. He hitches a shoulder. “Nowhere, man, just thought—I’m not _stupid_ , dude, it’s not like I couldn’t get a job if I wanted one.”

“Never said that,” Bob says. He has no fucking clue what’s going on here.

“So.” Joe clears his throat again. “Yeah.”

Bob squeezes his thigh, a steady pressure until Joe turns dark eyes back on him. Bob kind of wants to beat him until he makes some kind of sense; Bob’s like that. Or maybe he isn’t, because Joe’s a daily pain in his ass, and he just asks, “Chinese?”

*

Frank never thought he’d find the sight of Bill in pants disturbing, but, “No, seriously, what happened to your skirts, dude?” he asks.

Instead of his usual indignant rant about his Scottish heritage, Bill says, “That was mere plumage, my dear Iero, something daring to attract my ideal mate.” He gets a truly horrifying dreamy look on his face. “Besides, Gabe’s the jealous type, and my legs are _fantastic._ He’s awfully fond of my cock, too.”

Frank holds up a hand. “I didn’t need to know that.”

Bill shrugs, and he has a point; he’s got great gams, Frank isn’t going to deny that, and it’s not like Frank isn’t intimately acquainted with Bill’s dick – just about everyone in the apartment has had several unpleasant, too close for comfort moments with it; Bill doesn’t actually have any shame.

He doesn’t call Frank a girl, either – like Butcher and Joe would – when Frank insists Bill answer the door when the knock comes, right around the time Gerard’s supposed to pick him up. Frank ducks into the hallway and waits for Bill’s, “Hello,” and, “You must be Gerard,” and, “There’s a distinct lack of bird, but you seem the sort who’d have one,” and Frank thinks maybe he made a bad decision, letting Bill interact socially with the dude he thinks he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He doesn’t want Bill to scare him off; Gerard seems like he’s kind of easily startled.

Frank moves out of his hiding place nonchalantly, like it wasn’t actually a hiding place, and Bill’s right, there’s no Ben perched on top of Gerard’s head. This is disappointing – Frank likes Ben’s moxie, his righteous sense of mischief – but Frank supposes it’s the crowd thing again. That, and restaurants probably aren’t down with birds.

“Hi,” Frank says, and Gerard beams at him. Frank loves Gerard’s smiles. It’s like he doesn’t bother hiding anything, all open and honest and shit. It does stuff to Frank’s insides.

“Frank,” Gerard says, and Bill just stands there, hangs onto the doorknob, eyeing Gerard narrowly.

Finally, he says, “What’s the deal with this female. This Lyn-Z person?” and Frank palms his face, what the fuck, Bill.

Gerard freezes. “Uh, what?”

“Are you or are you not dating a girl?”

Frank peeks out between his fingers. Gerard just looks honestly confused, and in that moment Frank kind of loves Bill a whole fucking lot - he’d tongue kiss him hard and messy if he wasn’t afraid of communicable diseases and Gabe Saporta.

“Not?” Gerard says, then looks at Frank. “What?”

Frank bounces on his feet and grabs Gerard’s arm. “Just ignore Bill, he’s a sociopath. We try not to let him have any knives or opinions.”

Bill sends him a knowing and arch look behind Gerard’s back, and Frank’s going to owe Bill his first born or something for being so fucking awesome.

*

Ryan’s all boney angles, all awkward freshman math geek to Jon’s sophomore basketball star – which is hilarious, especially since Jon hasn’t really grown any taller in the intervening years – and it’s _adorable_. Spencer will never not think so.

“This is the greatest show ever,” Brendon says.

Ryan scowls, slumped down on the couch.

“I know,” Spencer says, grinning. It’s the best show in the history of shows, all because of Ryan and Jon and, okay, it’s an extremely cheesy send-up to _Saved By the Bell_ – totally better than _The New Class_ \- but Ryan and Jon’s characters are so clearly flirting with each other all the freaking time, he’s not surprised the writers were shoving girls down ‘Adam’s’ throat left and right.

“Right now,” Ryan says petulantly, arms folded over his chest. “Right now, we could be watching Tom take on Mardi Gras in Panama while Jon does voice-overs about lizard people.”

“We could,” Spencer says. “But it wouldn’t be as much fun.” Which isn’t strictly true, since Tom and Jon’s little-known travel show is mainly hilarious and full of misinformation and wacky hijinks.

Brendon laughs and ducks his head down into the fold of his arms over the coffee table. “Oh my god, Ross,” he says, words muffled.

He doesn’t elaborate, but Spencer doesn’t think he has to. On screen, ‘Turner’ has on a paisley necktie suspiciously similar to the one Ryan had worn just last week.

“I hope neither of you are planning on sleeping tonight,” Ryan says in a flat tone of voice that suggests he’s considering stabbing them to death even if they can still see it coming.

Brendon half-turns his head to look at Spencer; they’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor, knees nearly touching. “Should I be worried?” he stage-whispers, grinning.

Spencer ignores Ryan’s indignant huff, leans into Brendon’s side, props his chin on Brendon’s shoulder, lips brushing Brendon’s ear. “Nah,” he says. “He wouldn’t want to get blood on his awesome new alpaca sweater-vest.”

Brendon bites his lip; Spencer can only see the corner of his mouth. “Okay,” he says, a little more subdued.

Spencer thinks, _okay_ , and slips his hand up to rest on the inward curve of Brendon’s thigh.

*

Bob is sending out confusing signals. Joe’s a pretty straightforward guy, but he’s not sure if he should just come out and declare, like, his fucking intentions or not. Like, fucking kiss him or something, because there’s a chance Bob’ll break his face for that. Bob seems mainly tolerant of Joe, but there’s tolerant and then there’s Actually Gay. Or something. Bob’s a little handsy, though, so Joe’s feeling the gay vibes, even with his oh-so-obvious heterosexual past.

The whole reaction to Joe’s job plan is the most worrying, since Bob was entirely fucking _bewildered_ , Joe could see it on his face, like he couldn’t come up with a single reason why that was important.

“So,” Bob says after a lengthy silence, both of them immersed in pork lo mein, Joe immersed in thoughts of Bob’s mouth and Bob’s surprisingly deft hand with chopsticks. “Wanna explain to me this sudden interest in gainful employment?”

Joe blinks. He’s totally not used to that many words coming out of Bob’s mouth. “Uh.” This is his chance. He should just say, ‘I’d like to adopt your son and be worthy of your dick,’ except he’s aware that bringing up Ford and cock in the same sentence is probably not the best idea. Also, there’s that whole possible punching thing.

Bob’s got his I’m-waiting face on.

Joe scratches his chin, thinks, _fuck it_ , and leans over the coffee table to press his mouth to Bob’s. Only Bob’s mid-chew and his kiss lands off-center, because Joe is _just that awesome._

On the plus side, Bob doesn’t look any closer to a homicidal rage.

Firmly in the negative, though, is the blank, stone face he’s sporting.

Joe’s kind of frozen, thinks, _Oh shit_.

And then Bob says, “Still not getting the job thing,” and Joe sags back against the couch in relief, letting out a strangled, ragged laugh.

*

Gerard doesn’t even think about taking Frank anywhere other than the Watson Diner on Front Street, because that’s where he always eats, except once they’re inside he has a mild panic attack about how rundown and crummy the place looks. The food’s okay and the coffee’s the best in a five mile radius, but Frank deserves awesome service and clean tables and vinyl seats that weren’t molded sometime before 1975.

It’s too late now, though, and Frank’s bouncing into a booth at the far corner of the smoking section and Jenny already has two cups and a pot of coffee on the table before Gerard’s fully into the seat across from him.

Frank grins at him. “Cool place,” he says, and it doesn’t even look like he’s lying.

“Right?” Gerard says, grinning back. It _is_ cool, even if the Formica on the table is dingy brown and riddled with carved graffiti. There’s a jukebox in the corner that only plays Swedish pop. Chandra posts any napkin doodles she finds on the corkboard behind the register – Gerard’s got quite a few up there – and Leigh mainlines jellybeans from a jar on the counter in lieu of smoking; her voice has the husky rasp of a lifelong smoker, even though she’s been out of the habit for as long as Gerard’s been going there.

Picking up a laminated menu, Frank says, “So what do you recommend?”

“Pancakes.” You can’t go wrong with pancakes, really. There’s a stuffed mink on the wall by the grill wearing a pair of Blue Blockers – Gerard doesn’t exactly trust anything here with meat in it.

Frank bobs his head. “Short stack it is, then,” he says, and then he takes a swig of his coffee and says, “Wow,” and, “That’ll strip my stomach lining but good,” and, “This’s some fucking fantastic caffeine.”

Gerard’s pretty sure he’s in love.

*

Bob is not dumb or slow. He’s just cautious. Cautious, because being reckless had given him Ford, and he loves Ford and he wouldn’t trade him for anything, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had regrets over the years. That doesn’t mean raising a kid hasn’t been motherfucking _hard,_ and that some days he’d give anything to go back to his freshman year of college, before any of the shit with Lisa had happened, and, like, fucking wise up; he’d gladly kick his own ass, if he could.

But he can’t, and he has an awesome kid and a crappy job and a band that doesn’t stink and most days he thinks that’s fine.

It’s dark in the apartment. The TV’s flickering black and white, an old John Wayne western – Bob doesn’t get the appeal, but Joe seems enthralled.

Bob says, “Joe,” and Joe twitches, almost a flinch.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Joe says.

Bob doesn’t see how that’s possible, since _Bob_ isn’t exactly sure what he’s going to say. “Right,” Bob says.

Joe turns to look at him, and Bob can’t read his expression, there’s not enough light, but his mouth is smiling.

“Sure,” Joe says, nodding. “This is where you tell me I’m a bad influence on your kid—”

Bob arches an eyebrow. He actually thinks the opposite of that one – Ford’s been in a much better mood the past week, and Bob thinks it’s got more to do with Joe than with Mikey’s PS3. Probably.

“—and that I’m a bum, right, and not worth your time—”

“Hey.”

“Dude, seriously, you think I don’t know about the Hobo Joe stuff?”

Bob can feel a blush heat up his neck, even though Joe doesn’t sound offended or anything - he’s still smiling. Bob clears his throat. “Okay,” he says. “I wasn’t going to say any of that.”

Joe blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Bob rubs a hand over his nape. “I’m in a band,” Bob says carefully. “I have a steady job, because otherwise I couldn’t have custody of Ford.” What he doesn’t say is, _yeah, I’m a responsible fucking adult because my ex-wife is a bitch_ , because that would be uncharitable and immature.

Joe stares at him. “So, what. You’re saying you’d be playing bongo drums on the street if you didn’t have a kid?”

“No.” Bob would probably still have a crappy job, he likes having a nest egg, but it’d be a whole fucking lot less stressful. Or maybe he’d be doing the band thing full time, who knows, he’s not gonna dwell on what-ifs here. “I’m saying you do what makes you happy, Joe. I don’t fucking care, so long as you stay the fuck out of my lobby.”

“Ray lets me hang,” Joe says, but he relaxes a little, lets his shoulder brush Bob’s.

Bob doesn’t say anything. He’s pretty sure Joe isn’t going to make another move, though, and Bob’s perfectly fine with that. Bob has some moves of his own.

He yawns, stretches his arm above his head, and drops it down along the back of the couch, just barely touching Joe’s neck.

“Smooth,” Joe says.

Bob smiles. He crooks his elbow so his wrist rests on Joe’s collarbone.

“Seriously, have you been on a date since 1985?” Joe asks, but he spreads his legs so his knee’s riding up along Bob’s thigh. “Where’s our coke with two straws?”

“Joe,” Bob says.

“I’m gonna write a song about you,” Joe says. “It’ll be a handholding song, I hope you don’t mind if I make you a girl.”

Bob bites his lip. He is not going to laugh.

“Ford’ll do the handclaps, dude. That kid’s a fucking handclapping prodigy.” Joe grabs Bob’s dangling hand, tugs it down so he’s leaning full-on Bob’s chest, Bob’s arm pressing against Joe’s sternum. He tips his head back and beams up at Bob. “I’ll mold him into the perfect traveling musical hobo, it’ll be awesome.”

Bob says, “I’ll kill you.”

“It’s a risk. If you take up with me,” Joe says, and he’s maintaining his levity, but there’s still something serious about the set of his mouth.

“Yeah.” Bob shrugs. “Not really worried.”

*

It’s a pretty great night, Brendon thinks, even though Ryan’s in a giant, pissy sulk and has locked himself in his bedroom. It just means there’s more Spencer for Brendon, and Brendon can laugh at Turner’s cowboy boots and hobo gloves and math prowess without fear of immediate retribution. Later, Brendon knows nothing can save him. He’d totally been hysterical over the whole winter formal episode; Ryan’s probably plotting how to poison him to death without leaving any incriminating evidence.

What’s both awesome and confusing is that Spencer is suddenly all over him, touching and leaning and _breathing_ on him, and it’s hard to take any of Jon’s text messages serious – he keeps sending him photos of Virgin Mary statues in various holiday-themed hats – but Brendon’s thinking maybe the whole Spencer being sweet on him thing is more true than not. At some point, Brendon hides in the bathroom and texts Jon, _help_ , and, _Spencers hands!!!_

And Jon texts back: _hashe touched u in ur special place_

Brendon stares at his phone for a full minute, then slides it shut and tucks it into his back pocket. That’s enough of Jon, really.

Spencer flicks his hair out of his face and grins at him when he comes back into the den, eyes soft and a little bleary. He lazily pats the floor next to him and Brendon snags a pillow from the couch on his way down, hugs it to his chest and settles cross-legged by the coffee table again.

Spencer slumps into him like a sleepy puppy. It’s late, and Brendon near-whispers, “You like me, Spencer Smith. You think I’m _cute_.”

“I’m going to kill Jon,” Spencer says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s actually going to kill Jon, and he rubs his nose on Brendon’s arm.

Brendon starts to drift off sometime in the middle of the episode where Coach finds weed in Adam’s locker and Turner takes the fall for him so he doesn’t miss the big game. He says, sleepily, “They’re in love, right?” and Spencer nods along his shoulder, Brendon can feel the soft slip-slide of his hair against his neck.

“Totally,” Spencer says, then yawns noisily. He threads his fingers through Brendon’s, flexes them slightly before settling them both on his knee. “Totally, madly in love.”


End file.
